Miles
DON’T ATTACK THE
KITTY WHISPERER
B
efore I consider my actions, I launch myself at Kitty and take her to the ground. It’s been a hell of a week already and it’s only Tuesday. The last thing I want to explain to my mother—whose mind seems to be failing her at a rate that’s difficult to fathom—is that her precious Prince Francis is no more because the cat lady I hired to babysit him shot him. For knocking a gnome off the fireplace mantel.
“What’s wrong with you? You can’t shoot the fucking gremlin!” I shout.
I end up on the floor with Kitty, my body covering her much smaller, softer one. Her thick, wavy auburn hair is in my mouth. Her body is under mine.
She raises the hand holding the weapon, and I nab it from her while she sputters from under her hair and me. “What the heck! It’s a water gun.”
Realization dawns and horror slowly seeps in as I fully process the fact that I’ve tackled a woman to the ground.
I roll off her and pop back to my feet, glancing down at the baby-blue water gun in my hand. It’s leaking on the floor, the stopper having popped free. I’m missing the net, as far as first impressions go. It could also be considered assault.
As I’m about to speak, the cat yowls loudly. He launches himself off the mantel, lands on the coffee table, skids across several magazines, hits the floor, and rushes down the hall.
This introduction is not going great. “How was I supposed to know it was a water gun?” I replace the stopper and toss it on the couch before I turn back to her and belatedly extend a hand.
She glares at me and ignores my offer of help, using the edge of the coffee table to get to her feet instead. “It’s baby blue!”
“Handguns can be baby blue. My great-aunt Gerdie won one at a fair when I was kid.” It’s not the best color for a handgun. A little too enticing for kids, as far as I’m concerned, but Great-Aunt Gerdie thought it was very fashionable.
“A baby-blue handgun? That’s . . . ” Kitty looks appropriately appalled by this revelation, but she bites back whatever opinion she might have. “Why in the world would you think I’d bring an actual gun to a kitty care introduction? How in the meow would I be able to run a successful business if I went around pulling firearms out of my pocket every time a cat misbehaved?”
I can’t decide if I heard that incorrectly or not. “I don’t know. The whole pulling any kind of gun was unexpected.” I run a hand through my hair and notice that she’s once again
missing her glasses. And my horror is compounded when I notice that aside from the pink hue to her cheeks, she also has rug burn on the right one. I couldn’t make a worse impression if I tried. And I really need to get home so I can watch the game and take notes because Coach Davis is concerned about Parker, our rookie player, and we’re playing against Ottawa next week.
Parker O’Toole started with the team only this season, but he’s already showing a lot of promise. He grew up not far from where my family used to spend the summers on the lake. He’s a small-town transplant, and the big-city life is a whole lot of culture shock. We’ve already bonded over our mutual love of the butter tart shop in his hometown and ATV trailblazing in the summer and snowmobiling in the winter.
But Parker’s game performance needs to take a back seat, because I can’t afford to lose this cat sitter. I don’t have time to find another one. She’s still staring at me with something between disbelief and irritation. Her eyes are huge and wide and a deep, rich, forest green. Her hair, which was already wavy and voluminous, is now a wild mess, thanks to me attacking her.
Her top lip is thin and bowed, her bottom one full and pouty. Her nose is small and cute, her chin narrow. Her face is almost heart shaped. She’s curvy and soft, and I should not be noticing any of these things right now, because I just tackled her. Checking her out makes me creepy on top of being a grade-A jerk.
“Look at me!” She motions to her rumpled shirt with
THE KITTY WHISPERER
written across her chest and her leopard-print cardigan. “I love cats! Why in the world would you think I’d
shoot
one?”
She makes a good point, not that I’m willing to admit it aloud. “Well, you
were
actually planning to shoot him.”
“With freaking water!” She points to the still-leaking water gun sitting on the couch. It’s very much a glaring beacon for my idiocy in all its baby-blue glory.
“I’m still not wrong.” I don’t know why I’m so committed to being a giant d-bag, other than I don’t want to be here and I don’t have time for this or my mother’s pain-in-the-ass cat.
She makes a noise that sounds somewhere between incredulity and frustration. Then drops to her knees again, searching under the table for her glasses. Which I knocked off her face. When I tackled her to the floor.
“Sorry,” I mutter belatedly.
She grunts and almost bangs her head on the table, nearly knocking over one of the many otter figurines covering the surface, but they teeter back into place. Unfortunately.
Kitty stands and replaces her glasses, adjusting them so they sit straight, and touches her hair before smoothing out her top.
This intro could’ve gone a whole lot smoother. “I shouldn’t have tackled you.”
“Next time I’ll issue a water gun warning.” She rubs her elbow.
I knead the back of my neck, trying to figure out a way back to her good side. Maybe honesty will do the trick. “I have a dog. I don’t really get cats.”
She purses her lips, but slowly arranges her mouth into a stiff smile. “I figured you were a dog person. Cats are different.”
“They’re furry little psychopaths—or in this case, a naked one.”
I’m awarded with a raised eyebrow.
I should probably shut the hell up. I stuff my hands in my pockets, unsure what to do with them. Josh would be laughing his ass off if he could see me now. I’m notoriously not smooth with the ladies. See me tackling this one for details.
“They’re independent, not psychopaths. And they pick up on negative energy, which would explain why he’s hiding from you. Should I assume he’s generally skittish when you’re around?”
I blow out a breath, working to find some patience, and maybe a side of manners. “I haven’t had enough contact to be able to answer that.” I’ve only just met this woman, and I need her to take care of this furless nightmare. Telling her I haven’t seen my mother since I dropped flowers off on Mother’s Day probably isn’t going to win me any points. In fact, it only adds to my d-bag status.
She nods, not pressing further. “Do you know where your mother keeps Prince Francis’s treats? It might help if we can entice him with something he loves rather than continue to insult him.”
“Probably in the kitchen.” I found his food in the pantry, so I’m hoping the treats are close by.
I lead her through the living room, motioning to the broken trinkets as we skirt around them. “I didn’t have time to stop in yesterday, so I’m thinking he was pretty mad about that.”
“How long has your mom been in the hospital?” Kitty’s voice is soft and raspy, as though she needs to clear her throat.
“A few days. The doctors think she might have early-onset dementia.” Which is something they told me a couple of hours ago when I stopped at the hospital before coming here. It reframes a lot of our conversations over the past year. Now I’m beginning to realize she honestly didn’t remember the calls or the visits. And that makes me feel even shittier. “I don’t know how long she’s going to be there, to be honest, and I live in the city, so driving back and forth all the time isn’t always reasonable, and sometimes I travel for work.” And so far, all my interactions with Prince Francis have been less than pleasant, so covering more than the basics hasn’t been high on my priority list.
“Right. You said you have a trip coming up.”
I nod. This is better. If I can stick to facts maybe I can also be less of a jerk. “I’m only gone for a couple of days, but trying to juggle work and my mother in the hospital and her cat is a lot. Which is why I called you.”
She’s lost a bit of that stiff edge, and her expression turns sympathetic. “That’s a lot of stress.”
All I’ve done so far is dump a container of cat food into the bowl when I stop by, clean up whatever crap Prince Francis has tossed on the floor, and then drive home. And I’ve only done that twice. This being the second time.
Based on her website and social media, Kitty seems to be dedicated to taking care of other people’s cats, so hopefully she’s better at managing Prince Francis than I am.
I open the pantry door and turn my head away, raising my arm so I can sneeze into my elbow. “Freakin’ allergies.”
“Bless you,” Kitty mutters.
I drop my arm and cringe at the sheer volume of food my mother keeps on hand. She lives alone, so there’s absolutely no reason for her to have six boxes of cornflakes or ten jars of peanut butter, half of which are probably expired. Until a couple hours ago, I believed it was because of her compulsive sale shopping, but maybe she doesn’t remember what she has in the pantry, so she overstocks. This place needs a deep clean, that’s for sure. I don’t know when I’m going to have the time to do that. And being in this house isn’t exactly pleasant. The memories I have of living here aren’t great.
“Ahh, here we go.” Kitty brushes by me, the brief contact pulling me out of my head and my unwanted trip down memory lane. She picks up a package of dry treats and two different cans of cat food. “Do we know which one is Prince Francis’s favorite flavor?”
I shrug. “Isn’t it all the same stinky shit?”
She rolls her eyes. “No. It’s not all the same stinky shit. Just like some people prefer beef over chicken or seafood, so do cats. You could try asking your mother.”
“Yeah, sure. I can do that.” She seems to remember she has a cat without a problem, but I have no idea if she’ll be able to identify his favorite kind of food.
“We’ll give this one a try and see how he responds.” She returns one of the cans to the shelf and brushes by me, the smell
of her perfume or body wash lingering as she passes. I close the pantry door and follow her back to the kitchen. I learned the hard way that when the door is open, Prince Francis has access to anything that’s in a paper bag. He chewed a hole through the dry food and gorged until he puked the other day. There were barely chewed kitty kibble puke snakes all over the kitchen floor.
Kitty shakes the container of treats, and a few seconds later Prince Francis’s bald head appears. Kitty tosses a couple treats in Prince Francis’s direction and makes a tutting sound. Slowly, over the course of a few minutes, Prince Francis makes his way across the kitchen toward her.
I check my phone for new messages. The game has already started, and the GM is blowing up my phone with messages about strategy and pulling numbers for tomorrow. “Be careful,” I warn absently. “He’s not the friendliest.”
“He probably senses your dislike for him.” She keeps her attention on the cat as he prowls closer.
I don’t argue, because she’s undoubtedly right. Instead, I message the GM and tell him I’m not home but I’m recording the game and I’ll message as soon as I’m free.
When I finally glance up from my phone Prince Francis is stretched out on the floor beside Kitty with his head half in her lap, kneading the air.
“Oh, look at you, what a handsome boy you are! What a beautiful pink belly you have!” she exclaims.
I lean against the doorjamb and watch this grown woman cooing at the ugliest cat in the history of the world, telling him
how handsome he is and how much he must miss his human. She’s an odd one, that’s for sure. She’s also pretty in an unconventional way. Not that it matters what she looks like. Prince Francis just wants food at regular intervals.
Eventually she gives him half a can of food, which he devours in less than two minutes, and then he climbs into her lap and puts his paws on her shoulders. She stands, holding Prince Francis like a baby. He purrs contentedly and rubs his head against her chin, then tries to stuff his head down the front of her shirt.
“Prince Francis, dude, that’s harassment. You can’t do that if you want Kitty to come back.” I’m not sure I have a right to scold him since I tackled her like a football player, but I really do need her help. He clearly has no intention of listening to me, because it looks like he’s trying to climb right inside her shirt. “Do you want me to shoot him with the water gun?” I think it’s still in the living room.
That earns me another eye roll. “No, you don’t need to shoot him.” She shoves her own hand down the front of her shirt and a few seconds later produces a kitty treat. “Ah, there we go.” She lets Prince Francis eat it out of her hand. “Hazard of the job.”
This is so weird. “I, uh, need to clean up the mess he’s made. It’s probably better if I do that while he’s occupied.” Also, I feel like me talking less is better.
“Go ahead. I’ll just get some snuggle time in with the little Prince. We definitely don’t want all those broken trinkets on the floor, where they can cut his toe beans.”
“Toe beans?”
“The pads of his feet.” She crosses over to the lounger, which has been around since I was a kid, and she sinks down. Literally. It seems like the springs have gone in the seat cushion. She doesn’t complain, though. Just lets Prince Francis knead her legs until they’re tenderized enough that he can curl up in a ball in her lap.
I quickly sweep up broken knickknacks, sneezing, occasionally checking on the game and my messages from the GM between trips to the garbage can. I toss a bunch of the stuff on the side tables into a box to prevent more issues in the future. I need a weekend to go through the place, but that’s not going to happen until I’m back from my trip. Hopefully with Kitty around to help, there will be less tossing stuff off shelves.
By the time I’m done, Prince Francis has wrapped himself around her neck like a hideous stole while Kitty leafs through a very ancient copy of
Woman’s Day
magazine.
“I’m all set.”
She looks up from the magazine. “I’ll feed him one last time then.” She sets the dog-eared magazine on the stack of others just like it and leans forward. Prince Francis stands up on her shoulders, back arched and mouth open in a wide yawn before he hops onto the arm of the chair and then onto the floor, trotting toward the kitchen like he already knows the drill.
“Why isn’t he destroying things?” I don’t mean for it to come out sounding like an accusation, but based on her arched brow, it does.
“Because he’s getting what he wants—love and attention.” She
dumps the balance of the stinky food onto a plate. “Should I assume you don’t know what his feeding schedule is like?”
“I can ask my mom, but I can’t be sure she’ll know.” Every time I admit this, I feel like an even bigger bag of shit for not seeing how bad things have gotten. Her house wasn’t nearly this cluttered the last time I was in it. Or maybe I just didn’t notice. Or chose not to.
She sighs, and some of her haughty irritation wanes. “Why don’t I start by coming by twice a day? I can adjust depending on his behavior. He’s knocking stuff off the tables because he’s not getting the love he’s used to, and it’s the only way he can tell you how he’s feeling.”
“Kind of like how my dog will chew my shoes if I’m too late coming home,” I mutter. That’s only happened once. Wilfred is a great dog.
“Yes, but usually it’s on a smaller scale. And when they do it in front of you, like Prince Francis did when we first walked in, it’s a good sign that he’s not happy and he wants you to know. He misses his human—your mom, I mean.”
“I think they’re pretty much attached at the hip, or the lap.” At least that’s how it seems with the frequency of messages about him.
She nods and makes another little noise. “There’s a good chance. Consistent affection will help. You said you’ll be away for a few days? Does that mean you’ll only need me to stop by while you’re traveling?”
“If I could get on your regular schedule starting Thursday for
a while, that would be good. It’ll probably be temporary, a few weeks at most? But food twice a day seems normal?” I’m crossing my fingers the doctors will give her the all-clear soon, but that might be wishful thinking.
“I should be able to fit Prince Francis into my twice-daily route. I’m used to everything from short-term care to daily check-ins. I have a pair of doctors who are both on shift work this week who live close by, so I stop in and feed Mr. Munchies at least once a day, sometimes twice, and then I’ll head over here.”
“Mr. Munchies?” I don’t know why I keep asking questions.
“He’s a rescue who was owned by a family who habitually overfed him people food.” She deftly transfers Prince Francis to one arm and holds him like he’s a football. He doesn’t seem to mind in the least. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and shows me a picture of Mr. Munchies. He looks like a giant orange and white fluffball. Sort of like an inflated furry cat balloon.
“Wow. He’s—”
“Squishy? We have him on a diet and exercise routine. It’s slow going because he’s only motivated by food.” She smiles fondly at the picture.
“I hope he’s an indoor cat, otherwise he might get mistaken for a giant, furry Kong.”
Kitty’s top lip curls. “What a terrible thing to say!”
“But also not untrue.” My foot-in-mouth-syndrome is only getting worse, it seems.
She sets him on the floor. “I’ll put Prince Francis on temporary rotation with Mr. Munchies.”
“Okay, thanks. I uh . . . know my mom would appreciate this.”
“No kitty wants to be alone all the time.” Again with the slightly stiff smile. “I’ll just need a key, and I’ll send you a list of questions for you to ask your mom right now.” She punches a bunch of keys with one hand and my phone dings in my pocket.
Prince Francis rubs himself on her leg, and she bends to give him an affectionate scratch under his chin. “It was really great to meet you.” She addresses the cat, then turns her attention to me, her smile dropping. “I look forward to working with Prince Francis and seeing if we can’t get a handle on his behavior.”
I walk her out and stifle another sneeze.
“Bless mew,” Kitty murmurs, or maybe she said “bless you” and I misheard her.
“Thanks. Sorry about tackling you earlier.” I don’t know why I can’t leave that embarrassing moment in the past instead of dragging it forward with us.
“You’re a dog person. I should’ve warned you.” She adjusts her glasses. “It’s better than being tackled by a four-legged furball who wants to lick your face with the same tongue it licks its privates with.” Her expression pinches. “I’m going to go now. I think my conversation skills have been tested enough today. Don’t forget to email me back with as much information as you can get from your mother.” She nearly falls down the front steps in her rush to get to her car.
I go back inside so I don’t embarrass either of us any further and find Prince Francis sitting on the windowsill. He yowls forlornly as Kitty approaches her SUV. The Kitty Whisperer is written on
the side in fancy cursive. The
i
’s in
kitty
and
whisperer
are dotted with heart-shaped cat heads, the grill has whiskers, and the front of the SUV has a decal wrap that makes it look like a cat face.
When Kitty disappears inside the car, Prince Francis looks up at me accusingly and meows loudly.
“Don’t worry, ball sack.” I stifle another sneeze. “She’ll be back.”
He meows again.
“And hopefully you’ll get your regular human back soon, too.”